Rhythms of the Clock

The clock ticked constantly. There was a space between the tick, Mark guessed it was a second, give or take a few milliseconds. Click tick tock, it went in that order, it sounded exactly like that. Only there was that gap, so it was more like click...tick...tock...and it kept going like that, again and again, for forever. Or maybe...it threw in an errant sound every once in a while, like a pock or a crick or a crock. The end-of-class bell rang right on the tock. Mark decided he would see if the clock was a trickster, if it repeated the pattern or if it decided to be mischievous: 24 hours multiplied by 60 minutes multiplied by 60 seconds equal 86,400 seconds, which means it would be a click tomorrow when the bell sounded if it was constantly click...tick...tock over and over again.
Mark was reminded that he had to leave class now from his surly Spanish teacher's glare, so he lifted up his backpack and entered the hallway, walking blindly, foot following foot following the autonomy of routine, dodging around randomly placed strangers, avoiding juxtaposed security guards and scattered trash cans, drifting towards his next class, which was math, which was even more boring than the others, because the teacher did nothing but lecture in a monotone. As he approached the door, he heard a voice from nearby say, “Hey, it's the post!” Everyone called Mark the post because one time a kid said that Mark was “As dumb as a post,” because he never said anything and failed every class since elementary school. Mark simply proceeded into the classroom, ignoring the catcall. The big, blue marker smear on the whiteboard read, “TEST TODAY.”
The bell sounded to signal the start of class, and on cue the math teacher with the monotone started handing out packets of paper. She went to Mark's desk last, asking “Mark, did you remember a pencil this time?” He shook his head solemnly. Why did teachers ask that question every time? She reached into her pocket and held out a brand new yellow number two pencil, with a big mouse-ear pink eraser, and a pencil point as sharp as teeth. Mark did nothing. The teacher with the monotone set the pencil in his hand, and it wasn't the same when he was holding it. He could see it changing, morphing; The sharp point became the teeth, the pink eraser the ear, the yellow turned into the body of a rat, the worst creatures in the world. Mark dropped the rat on the table. It hit with a loud clack and turned back into a pencil. The teacher turned around on point; she walked back to his desk and said with a tone as curt as the way she walked, “Mark, pick it up and finish the test.” Nothing happened for a few seconds. She grabbed the pencil, and forced it into his hand. And it became a rat again. Why couldn't she understand he didn't want a rat in his hand? It was gnawing at his fingers, but he held on, the pain was unbearable, he held on. When the teacher was a safe distance away, he lowered his hand to the table, and let the rat off of him so slowly that it didn't make the slightest sound. It became a pencil once again.
The bell rang. Mark sat up and orderly left the room with the rest of the class, leaving his blank test behind. As he walked out, the teacher from across the hallway entered the room, and, reacting to the troubled look on the math teacher with a monotone's face, asked, “What happened?”
“It's that Mark Johnson. He never tries to learn. I can't even get him to hold on to a pencil, no matter how much I try to make him.”
“Well...” the teacher from across the hallway said, “It's not your fault. Some people just aren't very bright.”